GAME DAY II

GAME DAY II
Adam's Pov.

Okay. Here we go.

The game resumes with a bigger surge of energy, as things begin to heat up. As I begin to heat up.

I can do better, I know it. I owe it to myself, my fucking future. I have done better even. . .

I am better.

The air feels thicker now, every sound sharper. My focus narrows to the ball, the field, the rhythm of footsteps around me, friend and foe alike.

I chase down a loose pass, something I almost let go by. But I catch it, toss it forward. It’s clean, smooth, and the crowd reacts. As the noise rises again, and I feel it flood through me, hot and addictive. It's thawing me from the inside out.

I wasn't thinking about my leg or the right way to get attention on me. I just saw the ball and I needed to get to it. I wasn't absorbed in my. . .

That’s it.

I shouldn't be thinking so hard about it, literally. I trust myself to make the right decisions without dissecting them eight times. If I see an action, I should immediately have a reaction before the moment fucking passes.

So I let it all go.

The lights don't get dimmer, the nose doesn't get more manageable, the teams don't take it easier on me but I focus on the ball, only the ball, and getting it where it needs to go.

Touchdown.

Fuck, yes. Let's fucking go!

And even as we celebrate that goal, I'm watching the ball on the ground, fantasizing about it being back in my palms. I can't let my focus be shaken.

When we resume play, I’m fast, light on feet, decisive. Each movement is deliberate and final, fueled by something fierce in my ribs. If I make a wrong move, I'll dust myself off and make the next, hoping for better.

But I almost forgot how good I am at what I do.

Touchdown.

I keep my eye on the ball as we continue. Something has changed in the air. I'm more flowy, more dynamic.

I think my teammates sense it too because they start feeding me more passes. Again, I don't think, I let it come naturally. If there's a ball in front of me, I go for it with the sole aim to take it over the line.

It's fucking working.

Touchdown—

I'm a moment away from getting the ball to their end zone but I feel someone coming up right behind me. A tackle, easy enough. I nudge myself out of the way, still in line for my goal. It's so close, I've already added it under my belt.

In the moment, I can't know just how big of a man he is, a giant almost. I don't see that.

But he knows. He's trying to stop me from making another touchdown with only a few seconds to spare, and his biggest weapon is his size. So he damn sure uses it. He's let his body fly toward me, with no means of stopping all that momentum and no desire to.

I don't move out of the way enough.

He slams into my shoulder, the force still enough to shake me, and toss me off balance. I feel myself stumble and begin to go down.

I panic hard.

All my fears about my foot flood my brain and I toss the ball away, raising my leg, intent to protect it.

And maybe I would have, maybe it would have worked. Because for one dizzying instant when I’m almost to the ground, my leg is suspended. Safe.

Touchdown.

I hit the grass hard, the breath knocked clean from my chest because I don't bother bracing myself. All's well and good, maybe I'll have a bruise later, nothing I can't handle.

But gravity claims the both of us.

I didn't account for my opponent. The other player lost his balance too, falling forward. As he tumbles down, silent, his body left to the mercy of his fall, I watch with horror, a small gasp slipping out of me.

His body smashes into my knee with a roll, and soon he’s made his way to my ankle. His dead weight forces it down from that height, slamming against the unforgiving ground. For a moment, I'm sandwiched between them, a rock and a hard place, before he rolls off, amidst grunts.

The crowd goes from jubilant to murmurs, holding its breath as neither of us move. They're wondering if we're okay, of course, but I already know.

I heard the crack, quiet but unmistakable.

And then the pain hits.

It’s a simple ache, unfortunately familiar. My body goes rigid, every nerve flaring in protest as my mind still tries to deny the obvious. The noise of the crowd dulls, muffled and distant, like someone’s turned down the volume on the world as all my focus zeros in on the throbbing pain that shoots up my leg.

For a heartbeat, I can’t even breathe. All I can feel is the pulse of pain, steady and merciless, radiating outward from my ankle but more pressingly, the agony of what this means.

Suddenly I'm surrounded by people, my teammates, coach, paramedics, I think. But I can't be sure. They're all so blurry, from the stinging in my eyes.

I move, not even anything ambitious, and the pain has me freezing, except for the wince on my face. I don't want to make it worse, but what does it matter at this point?

“Stay still,” someone says above me, pushing back on my shoulders.

I nod or maybe I don't. I don't care. Everything’s getting blurrier, and it's not just from the pain.

And as I lie there under the glaring lights, hands lifting me into a stretcher, strangely I remember the echo of my phone ringing in my locker, someone calling me so close to the game to wish me luck.

I won
der if they're watching. I wonder if they saw me go down.

I wonder if they feel my pain.